Cursing the Darkness
by Antidisestablishmentarianist
Summary: 16 year old Sirius Black's life takes a definate turn for the worse when fate pushes him into his worst enemy's home. A chaptered fiction in diary form from both boys point of view.
1. In Sickness and In Health

Title: Cursing the Darkness.  
  
Author: Antidisestablishmentarianist / Kitty-kitty  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter - he's the property of Ms. J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, Scholastic, Bloomsbury and Raincoat books.  
  
Author Notes: Yes, I KNOW, I promised I'd continue with "Riddles of the Past"... and I will! I swear! This is a writer's block resolver... I'm going to try writing from a Diary point of view... for once, it's not involving Ginny (I've recently discovered that about 90% of my fiction either have Ginny and Tom or Ginny and Draco)... but is featuring a slightly OOC Sirius and... don't get me started.  
  
July 17th, 1976  
  
I can safely say that I've never been this terrified in my life (believe me, there's things in my life you'd have nightmares about, including and above the women's frilly lingerie in my little brother's closet that he insists isn't his and the house elf's quite frankly unhealthy obsession with my mother.) Let me give you an idea why. It's something like three in the morning, I'm sitting on a train next to a woman wearing a fox around her neck (the things you see on the Underground at this hour!)... well, that's not why I'm frightened... it's better if I go back a bit.  
  
Alright, yesterday evening - after dinner - I was helping Mrs. Potter (who's insisting I call her Mary... or Margaret... or Margery... well, now you know why I won't call her it) with the dishes. I was drying, she was washing and James was putting away. He hadn't been looking well at all and after he'd dropped a dish and looked at it in some sort of shock, his mum suggested he should lie down for a while.  
  
... Aha ... we were both up half the night (well, we're always up half the night. Snape doesn't get revenged on his own) because he insisted he couldn't sleep. He just got paler, weaker, shakier... urgh, don't want to remember that... let's just say I spent an hour or two holding back his hair for him while he was sick (I've said it before. You shouldn't have long hair if you can't manage it.)  
  
You'd have to be a complete idiot to miss that there was something wrong there. He was throwing up stuff that I haven't seen in my long (sixteen years!) history of being on this earth... first yellow, then thinning out to this horrible watery black stuff. (Yes, I'm sorry, I have to be descriptive. I'm not worrying alone!)  
  
Well, the next hour or so is a blur. I remember pulling Mr. Potter out of bed, Mrs. Potter wringing her hands out and James sprawled up against the sink splashing water in his face. He had to be carried to the fireplace and... bloody hell ... he looked so small. Not like our Prongs at all!  
  
Mrs. Potter patted me on the head distractedly the entire time. If it was anyone else, I probably would have wriggled out of her reach (just because I can turn into a dog doesn't mean I like being treated like one) but she was too obviously worried about James. I empathized, and anyway, I'd never seen my own mum that pale and frightened. I'd been in shock before, but the tears in her eyes sort of brought it home.  
  
"Listen, I can't bear the thought of you alone," she told me (I honestly didn't mind. Andy owes me a favour and I'm growing fond of her toddler, Dora.) "I'll send you to my cousin, she's absolutely lovely and ... they've got very talented healers at St. Mungos, you needn't worry over James one bit. We'll keep in contact and tell you how he is. It won't be long, I promise."  
  
I nodded. There was nothing else I really could think of to do. All I could think of was James looking so small and childlike, or with tears streaming down his face by the sink... and I felt like crying myself. (If anyone ever finds this thing, I swear I'll hex them into next week. I don't usually keep a diary, honestly.)  
  
The train's stopping now... there's a woman supposed to meet me here and I'll bet you at least five galleons that I already know her. All the pure- blood families are related - I'm sure I'm tied into the Potters somewhere along the line of third cousins - and my mother made it a point that I knew my relatives. I think I see her now - black hair, petite ... a little downtrodden. Of course, it is three in the morning and it is raining... oh, there's the boarding call.  
  
I'll write later - promise. ... oh, what do you care? You're a diary.  
  
Sirius. 


	2. Bloody Irish Pessimists

Title: Cursing the Darkness. (2/10)  
  
Author: Antidisestablishmentarianist / Kitty-kitty  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter - he's the property of Ms. J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, Scholastic, Bloomsbury and Raincoat books.  
  
Author Notes: I'm actually writing this the same night as chapter one. Hush, it's fun. It's a pity I don't have a floppy disk or there'd be no chance of me getting caught using this thing at 12:45AM. Que Sera, sera, you can't have everything.  
  
Bloody Irish Pessimists: Severus Snape  
  
July 17th 1976  
  
Murphy's law: Things can always get worse. Bloody pessimistic Irish bloke. Where does he get off making my life hell? Well, Irish or no, he's right. I  
barely slept last night, I have all my homework for the holidays ahead of  
me and... just my luck... somehow my household has managed to procure a  
Marauder. (Is there any way to write a sneer? If so, there should be a  
sneer in there) Dear god, someone call an exterminator!  
  
I'd drifted off at two (head down in a book... did I mention I've got a  
page of my Potions workbook printed across the side of my cheek?) at my  
desk but awoke at three to the sound of my mother's voice.  
  
"Shhh, try not to wake him. Here," there was a soft scuffle and the door swung open. I kept my head down on the book but cracked one eye open - but all I could see was a slightly towering figure silhoutted against the door.  
"Goodnight, dear," whispered mum, and the door was shut once more. The figure stopped in mid step, sighed, and dumped what must have been a duvet  
on the floor. Without further debate, he flopped down on it and pulled it  
over him.  
  
There wasn't another sound.  
  
I waited for a few tense minutes for the mystery person's breathing to slow  
enough that he couldn't be faking sleep, shut the book and replaced it on the shelf (I admit that I'm a pack rat, but I'm also a neat one.) I did try  
to sleep, but only napped in stops and starts. My trepidation at this new  
arrival was too strong to relax (... I swear, that idiot of a Divination  
teacher gives me far less credit than I deserve.)  
  
There were noises of distress in the small hours of the morning. Whimpers,  
in a male voice, and small thumps of tossing and turning on the floor.  
Doubtless, if I wasn't so alert I wouldn't have heard them - they were  
obviously smothered and concealed but I've always had that useless little  
talent of finding things I'm not meant to know.  
  
Bleary from lack of sleep, I stumbled down the stairs at nine. There were  
some neatly folded blankets in a pile on the floor and a bag with a wand  
poking out from under the lid. Our mystery guest was a tidy one (and  
obviously, much to my previous guesses, not the fourth year Regulus  
Black... that boy is about as tidy as a sea turtle on heat. Believe me,  
that's not tidy.)  
  
Father was already at work (I thanked my lucky stars) and the WWN was  
turned up high in the kitchen ("... and, of course, the lovely Celestina  
Warbeck will be releasing that new single next week. Look out for it in  
good music shops in Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade and Belfast.") which heralded  
my mother's awakening.  
  
I don't know why, but I wasn't prepared for the shock I met in the kitchen.  
  
Sirius Black turned around, hair tied back and a bowl of oozing yellow goo in hand with a sort of sheepish look on his face. He waved with the soiled whisk and sent tiny yellow spatters all over the kitchen. "Uhm... how d'you  
like your pancakes?" he asked after the few seconds stunned silence.  
  
I realized with mounting horror that my mother had a huge smile on her face. "Good morning, dear! I don't know if you know Sirius - he lives with  
Mary Potter - her son's sick and she's staying with him at St. Mungo's so  
Sirius will be staying here for a little while. Isn't that lovely?"  
  
"Yes..." I said, feeling ill. "Lovely."  
  
I shot a venomous look at Black behind her back and was pleased to find  
that he looked just as disconcerted as I did. Without his friends, he  
wasn't half the Gryffindor idiot... rest assured his stay will not be a  
pleasant one. 


End file.
